


Cabin Pressure

by orphan_account



Series: It's My Party And I'll AU If I Want To [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2333765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scared of flying AU. </p><p>Flight delayed. Talking. Holding hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cabin Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why the original upload was all messed up and I reorganised the whole thing so here ya go.

It's not like John is really scared of flying, no, flying is not a problem. It's the part where, in his imagination, they crash and die he thinks is quite distressing. A vivid image of blazing orange fire, an inferno filled with flames and the stench of burnt flesh mixing with the distinct smell of kerosine haunting him down every time he finds himself inside the small, pressured, tin box with wings that looks so utterly displaced on the ground. Mere millimeters of aluminium seperating them from the cold, harsh wind that swirls around them. When parked on the grey asphalt of London Heathrow planes have the ridiculous habit of looking too heavy, too clumsy and kind of boorish, in no way capable of becoming airborne and soar through the clouds with mighty grace, not helping him in any way.  
  
Sherlock, of course, has none of these thoughts whenever his eyes fall upon one of the innumerable planes. Sherlock, the great Sherlock Holmes, isn't scared of anything. He grew up with planes and with helicopters flying him to fancy dinner parties his brother invited him to. Mycroft Holmes has been the proud owner of his own jetstream since Sherlock was five, so yes, Sherlock is used to flying. And in no ways afraid of anything that faintly has to do with that subject. And, of course, that's also why Sherlock can't imagine other people having a phobia for metal boxes that magically go up into the air. Because Sherlock is an ignorant twat. That's why he cocks his head to the side and looks at John with utter confusion as John's knuckles turn white and his heart rate picks up when they enter the waiting room they were sent to because, of course, their flight had been delayed. 

"What's wrong?" he asks, whispering.   
"Nothing," he grits out, displaying a tremolous smile of some sorts.   
He can see by the way Sherlock's eyes narrow and he raises his eyebrows that he doesn't believe a single syllable of his one word answer.   
"Tell me," He inquires, impatiently as always. Because, of course, Sherlock thinks the only things that can shake the army doctor are dangerous situations and imminent threats. A bomb or the shadow of a gun visible through the dark, grey fabric of westwood suits. There's this brief moment when Sherlock raises his hand and moves it faintly in John's direction where he almost believes Sherlock is going to try and make a reassuring move, but something makes the younger man reconsider, and to be honest, it was probably the surprised look on John's face at the mere thought. John averts his gaze to look at the clinically sterile tiles of the airport, wondering briefly if they'd just been cleaned, musing they must be considering the amount of people that walk down these halls and rooms every day.  
He doesn't dare to look up at Sherlock again, afraid for his fears might just be written clearly in the liquid coating of his eyes. Sherlock doesn't bother asking again anyways; silence stretching thin. The only proof of Sherlock's interest the distant sound of fingers drumming unknown patterns against covered kneecaps.   
"Idontlikeflying," he mumbles, making his hasty formed sentence sound like one word, and god, he can almost feel Sherlock's eyebrows furrowing in incomprehension caused by the general ignorance that surrounds him and fills him to the brim.   
"What do you mean, you don't like flying?" Sherlock asks, genuine confusion breaking through the sarcastic icing of his voice.   
"I don't like flying or planes. They look like they're not made for what they do and as if their only purpose is crashing and burning with a deafening bang and a blast," John explains, eyes scanning the tiles around his feet as if he's on the desperate quest of finding a patch, a spot of dirt blemishing the snow white ground.   
He can hear Sherlock hissing, and he knows by the way the _tzz_ -sound leaves his mouth that Sherlock's accentuating the action with a shrug and a little grin.   
To John's utter surprise he can feel Sherlock's fingernails clawing at his closed hand; his fist lying next to Sherlock's on the unoccupied chair that creates a meaningless void seperating them both. That is, it was meaningless, now he wants it gone, the simple act of fingers trying to open his fist with the intention to intertwine with his own reawake old buried feelings deep underneath the ivory constellation of his ribcage. There's a flash of heat spiking beneath the apex of his heart, blood running cold and hot. Fire and ice in his veins, coating his insides with liquid light.   
Thoughts long gone and wishes upon stars made in the dark of star illuminated night skies above countries covered in dust and blood.   
  
All because the man he thought incapable of human feelings and emotions attempts a pathetic try to show John he is.   
He relaxes the muscles of his hand, allows Sherlock to take it in his. Soft fingertips stroking his own, fierce fires burning underneath soft skin, magnetism igniting sparks and forest fires devouring evergreen seas.   
"You know," Sherlock says suddenly, causing John to snap out of it. He turns his head and his eyes slide over the comforting image of his hand steady in Sherlock's before their eyes meet. A playful grin tugging at the corners of plump rose lips.   
"Planes and boats have one thing in common. They all crash and burn and sink when they're on important journeys. Destinies unknown or about to be discovered. Transatlantic and heading towards war zones. This plane is merely flying to Sweden, and god, no plane would even dare to crash on a journey to Sweden. It would be a disgrace for every plane ever built."   
John grins a bit at Sherlock's choice of words, a chuckle threatening to leave his throat. And no, of course Sherlock's words don't take his fear, but by the way Sherlock's hand clutches his own, squeezes it in this reassuring way, he can tell nothing will happen.

And god, if it did. He would at least hold the hand of the smartest and loveliest man he has ever had the honour to know during his final moments. And as an ex soldier who experienced bullets flying through bodies and blood drying in the heat of the desert sun, that's enough for him. 


End file.
